


Electronic necromancy

by lovelorn (GloomyMonday)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bizarre Love Triangle, Existential Dread, M/M, actual android necromacy, eventual bad puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:19:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloomyMonday/pseuds/lovelorn
Summary: They say you don’t die until the last byte of you has been deleted. In other words, Hank tries to bring Connor back from deactivation limbo and RK900 gets played along.





	1. Chapter 1

It was the 19th of December and almost noon: Connor was supposed to have arrived two hours before.

It wouldn’t have been much of a surprise had it been Hank. He was the punchline that always arrived late, when no one was expected to laugh, but Connor —the fact that he wasn’t on time was what kept him tapping his desk unceasingly, trying to morse-code the android into existence. He should be sitting just in front of him looking all passionate about solving crimes, dropping some lighthearted question once in a while to try and strike up a conversation. In hindsight, he wished he had realized sooner the reason as to why he wasn’t there. He felt just as stupid as he felt outraged when he read the first mail on the screen. It was from Cyberlife and it wasn’t spam.

_Android RK800 Serial Number #313 248 317-51: Deactivated._

An android’s obituary was such a dry, meager piece of text to read. Apparently the RK800 was obsolete. Faulty. It had failed on its mission to find Jericho —didn’t make any difference, it ended up blown up into oblivion. They included their “honest apologies” : the product was a short-term loan from the start. They were certainly very considerate for they included a 15% discount for the inconvenience.

No, it couldn’t be. But still it was. Hank’s heart sunk: the feeling was familiar to him but that never made it better. His breathing got out of hand, the thoughts running through his head too much to bear. Then suddenly a clear one —the way Connor had looked at him (bit of a crooked smile on his face) just the night before as he waved him goodbye from the entrance to his house. The android had just pulled out from his impressive database some random trivia about the date: it was the anniversary of the abolition of the death penalty in Great Britain. It was a grim remark, but now seemed even grimmer. Still, Connor had said in a gentle tone along with a calm expression, as softly as the sparse snowflakes that fell onto the concrete. Had he faced his death in the same way? Was he aware of it before they shut him down for good? That innocent memory pierced through his soul and he knew the wound would bleed for the rest of his miserable life. If he had any left in him.

A dim light shone through the storm: Connor always came back. His life was a commodity from a trillionaire corporation which also meant that there would probably be a backup of his consciousness in a lonely hard-drive, a body made of spare parts in the corner of a cold warehouse. He was still there, present in some way or another and Hank had the will to bring him back.

* * *

 

Hank had spent the whole day arguing with Cyberlife employees on the telephone, an endless string of questions being asked and being answered. Everytime he ended the call, he got more and more convinced that the effort was pointless. It was company policy not to disclose information on any deactivated androids for safety purposes. The perfect nebulous excuse. Now they wouldn’t pick up anymore, his number had been blacklisted for sure. He left out a groan as he concealed his face behind his palms. The living room had never felt so big, so unnecessary empty. Sumo approached him and licked those big hands. He regained his composure and patted him on the head. It was late and since he had been so hung up on his talkatory warfare that he hadn’t bothered to switch on the lights. The cars driving through nearby illuminated the interior for a second before relegating it back to darkness. His epic odyssey to bring Connor back had met such a sudden and disappointing end, like a bad magic trick.

It had been in this same sofa where Connor had told him another miscellaneous fact: _Lieutenant —he said— contrary to popular belief, the density of water is slightly less than 1 kg/m3_. Both had taken a liken to that game. Hank pretended to know and Connor pretended he didn’t know he lied. They had kept up this silly game since the last day of November; now he could link various places to random answers to trivial pursuit questions, useless as that seemed right now.

Hank opened another bottle of beer without discarding the one on the coffee table. He was tired but he was aware that that wouldn’t be enough to set him to sleep. Not tonight. He wished he had invited Connor over the night before. He had thought about it; that was the worst part of it.

A knock on the door.

Hank jumped, the sudden noise waking him up from his alcoholic daze. Sumo got tense. It seemed they both had a bad feeling about this. He got to the entrance as silently as he could and through the peeping hole on the door he saw the face of the one standing on the other side.

“Connor?”

He hadn’t noticed the cold blue eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, in full effect.

Hank opened the door to a ghost. In the brief moment it took him before uttering any other word, he understood that that was not Connor or anyone (nor anything) close to him. It was something that came from a cold creek in the uncanny valley, a sinister doll with familiar features but strange piercing eyes. He felt a shiver down his spine.

“Good evening, Lieutenant. My name is RK900, I am a prototype sent to you by Cyberlife for your assistance.”

Hank didn’t say a thing, but somehow the other one heard the question. 

“I’ve been informed that you are currently suffering from a mental breakdown. I can help you with that.”

He couldn't bear the ring of his voice, it was like hearing a phone message left by a dead person. He closed the door on his face, locked it, and headed to his bedroom. Hank didn’t want to check if that thing was still outside and certainly didn’t want to think about its existence at all. Tomorrow he would do something about it: shout on the phone to Cyberlife or something. But at the very moment he didn’t have it in him to deal with it.

To his horror, it was still there the morning after when he opened the door. Unbothered, unafflicted. Greeting him with a slight nod that was weirdly reminiscent of Connor’s mannerisms. Hank didn’t let him get inside the car but he knew he would find his way to the police station eventually, and that his arrogance was a mere negation of the facts. And so it was that when he arrived at his desk, the other had already brought him a cup of coffee, as part of a protocol or as a mere way of getting to him, who knew. Well, if it was the latter he should have brought some donuts too.

Hank knew Fowler had some part in all of this and when he approached him about it, for the first time in god knows how long, the Captain couldn’t even explain himself clearly. Neither of them knew what they were talking about.

“What the fuck is this all about, now?”

“Listen, Hank. Don’t get it out on me, it wasn’t my call. I didn’t decide what to do with Connor and I absolutely had no say in this. Last week they told me they would bring in their new tool.”

“Tool?”

“Yeah, they want to… Cyberlife has shifted their focus. They don’t even call them androids anymore, just so they don’t get the stick for it again. So it’s an android, but less life-like they said. It’s more like a glorified laptop computer.”

“And it’s that thing?”

Fowler looked outside the glass pane over to numerous workstations. There he was, standing next to Hank’s desk, leaving a box of donuts on it with utmost precision.

“Yeah.”

There was a silence.

“Hank. It’s only for a few weeks while they test it, man up for fucks sake.”

“Did they really have to?”

Fowler raised his chin as he looked at him, but Hank didn’t look back.

“Did they really have to make him look so alike?”

The captain tapped his pen on the table and looked away.

“I guess they’re really into the prep-boy look.”

 

And so they were sitting there together, on the driveway to some seedy fast food restaurant. Not Chicken Feed. It would have felt wrong to Hank to bring the other over, like sharing a toothbrush or something. So he settled for some place in the middle of the road, a tiny building next to a gas station with barely-functioning neon lights. He went out to get the worst looking burger they had, coupled with soda and fries, secretly hoping for the fat to clot his veins. Once back in the car, he managed to say something:

“So what?”

The other didn’t say anything, but at least looked at Hank.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m RK900. But you can change the name to which you refer to me if that makes you more comfortable.”

“Okay, what about this: Asshole.”

“No foul language allowed.”

“Fuck.”

“Not allowed either.”

Hank could definitely feel the sickness growing in his stomach. Was it the burguer, was it that thing’s voice? Well, he couldn’t tell, but he knew he probably wouldn’t want to. He felt terrible enough to keep up the conversation and to ask what he’d meant to ask.

“What do you know about an RK800 named Connor?”

“Which of the 28930 of them?”

Hank groaned.

“You probably already know which one I’m asking you about.”

“Yes.”

Hearing that word felt like a lighter that had managed to light up a cigarette in the middle of a torrential rain. RK900 read out the email that Cyberlife had sent, and it sounded grimmer hearing it on Connor's own voice, so much so that it was borderline funny. There was a moment of silence inside the car, whilst there was none at all on the outside (was that an illegal car race in the background, a hit-and-run or or just a hallucination?) Hank bit his lip. He was going to say it, right on this very moment:

"Is there a way of bringing him back?"

"The RK800 is an obsolete model. I'm the most up-to-date version, superior to my predecesor in every possible aspect. There is no pragmatic need to bring it back." 

There was no way around this thing, it seemed. At least he couldn't debate it on an emotional level, that was for sure. Hank tried to speak its language.

"There is... Important data relevant to my current investigation in his memory."

"There are multiple cues in your body language and your speech pattern that give away that you're lying. And you're not assigned to any investigation at the moment."

If he threw what was left of the soda to RK900's silicon face would it short-circuit like a toaster thrown into a brimming bathtub? Hank almost dared to try.

"Well, fuck me but you're not being very pragmatic yourself right now. Maybe I'll have to wait for the RK1000 to come around before I can get something done for fucking once."

No reply.

"Now, I'm going to say it again, is there a way of bringing him back?"

"Yes."


End file.
